the horrors of our love
by windfish
Summary: a series of drabbles focusing on ghirahim and demise's relationship. varied circumstances; possible slight au, post- and pre-storyline. contains mention of adult material and abuse.
1. flaw

His master loved him. He knew that. He only wanted him to be strong, to be able to serve him to his fullest, and that was why he had to hurt- he had to temper himself beyond the steel, to be, at times, beaten into alignment, to make sure he could withstand the stresses a sword would have to. That was the only reason; it was because he loved him, cared for him so dearly, that he would raise his hand against him, that he would keep him from healing his wounds, that he would force him to withstand the blistering heat of the mountains, and force him under the surface of lake floria. Love was to be tempered, much like he himself was, from pain, and to be forged from the fires of passion, and cooled with a cold shoulder.

He couldn't wait for the day he would be in perfect form, to be worthy of being his sword. Even his hylian form- temporary, he'd assured Demise- was perfect, with a lithe form and smooth skin, and when his master first stroked his arm, he'd thought that perfection was sooner than he realised.

It was when he'd lain him against silk sheets that he was declared flawed, unworthy of the stains he'd placed on the fine fabric. He'd cried out and finished much too soon, he'd learned. He would have to train himself to have "some semblance of patience," and to "be silent, as a weapon should be," and he dedicated himself to the task thusly, wearing his bruises and limps with a swollen, bloated pride. He would go through any training for his master, no matter the amount of pain, he had promised him. He would grit his teeth and not cry out, not when being hit or scalded or when water filled him, incapable of drowning but an uncomfortable heaviness sinking in, regardless.

He would be perfect, someday, and it would all be worth it to see a smile on that grim face, or a pat-and not a slap- of encouragement, or just to be held, those warm hands on his cold steel. They would be perfect.


	2. fault

It was _his fault_. That was the only explanation; after years and months and days of accounting for every last nuance in the ceremony, after so long, he had finally seen his master's face again, dark and powerful and glinting, and after so long, it was gone in what must have been some absurd fraction of his loneliness. Those strong, leathered hands grasping at his hilt, huffing with a weakness that, statistically, shouldn't have been possible- not from his master. The stillness in his chest shouldn't have happened. Sheathing himself- against his master's orders, cursing himself- he found his way to his side, smooth metal against worn and weathered skin, lukewarm.

It had to have been _his fault_, there was no other option. His master was perfect, it must have been some sort of flaw in his very being; some sort of alloy impurity, a chip, a crack, _something _was very wrong with him. He'd never deserved his master in the least, had he? It must have been some sort of charity, a selfless act that served as his folly. His master was perfect and gracious, wasn't he, to take in such a flawed creation? The scaled arms blurred before him, broken, echoed sobs falling out from him as he bowed his head.

"Master…" He rested the cool, tempered steel of his forehead against his master's chest, twining his fingers with his, what used to be resisting and forceful, limp and giving. "I'm s-so sorry. I should have… I-it's my fault."

"Ghirahim…" It was _that boy_, that dog of the goddesses, his gloved hand resting tenderly on his shoulder. He turned around with a great ferocity, tears casting prisms along black metal as he screamed, face contorted in what could only be described as agony.

"_You_." He brought shaking hands to his throat, snarling. "_You killed him, too_!" Brown boots scraped at the mirrored surface of the water, kicking in a desperate attempt to get free. A knee bashed into the diamond in his chest, slicing open his pants and knee before being dropped again.

"It's…" A hand held itself against his neck, holding back hoarseness, "… you can live your life now."


	3. love

He knew what pain was. Pain felt good, it felt _nice_, it felt like those strong hands on him, stabbing into him with sharp nails or bruising him with strength alone or anything that wasn't this strange sort of pain; the pain of fingers pulling through his hair wasn't as strong or as nice as bruises or cuts or broken bones, which he'd grown quite fond of. This pain was strange and soft and _frightening_ with the gentleness his master rarely displayed. No, this pain was only a prequel to a blistering, hot, embarrassing pain, a kind that kept him immobilised far worse than any broken leg or arm. Hot, burning lips pressed against his, hands pressed against his cheeks; he felt so _small_ next to his master, like one of those disgusting infants the humans so coddled. They pressed in and dug in, and if he hadn't been quite so preoccupied, he might have felt the nails at his scalp or given a yelp of pain as the hands pressed together.

This wasn't pain, he knew, and he loathed the feeling of this _love_, that sensation the skychild seemed so sickeningly obsessed with recovering. Scales with a razor edge dug into his skin as it tore and stretched over them, reaching down to undress him. The burning at his lips, he'd realised, matched the burn of cuts at his stomach, and he tasted blood as he licked at them, feeling a chunk sliding between his teeth and gums. This was pain. He liked it, he realised, because it meant his master, who so _loved_ him, was alive and well. Love, though, seemed to have a different meaning among the people of the sky; the way the mortal goddess and the hero so carefully handled each other, despite how frail and small her hands were, and how soft and easily sliced his lips were, and how they had no trace of bruise or dried blood or markings left to identify each other.

Their love didn't involve the scraping of skin against skin, blackened fiery flesh against his tongue, careful this time of scales- he wasn't sure if he liked the pain of swollen painful gashes on the tender muscles of his inner mouth.

He couldn't help but be just the slightest bit jealous of this sort of love, that seemed to have no immediate pain associated with it; there was a sort of wonder of how did they know how to live, or what their purpose was, without the pain, and if maybe in their city in the sky, they had forgotten who it was they loved without the bruises and cuts and scars to prove them?

No, the pain of his love was searing and hot and he felt as if he were being torn in two, two fingers pushing against the back of his throat to hold back the screams he instinctually made as his master pushed something _else_ into an entirely different orifice, lubricated with saliva and blood. Nails scraped at the back of his throat, and he could taste the bitter iron from his mangled lips and throat, gagging and sputtering; he only needed oxygen to speak, really, so the choking and garbled swallowing of saliva and blood and shame and _pain_ helped to quiet him as those fingers receded, trailing red down his neck, pressing in just enough to make swallowing difficult.

He wondered what their love tasted like, the sky children; was it as rusty and salted and bitter and shameful as his? Did the girl ever cut her hair short enough to hopefully keep wandering hands from pulling and tearing it out? Did the boy ever keep away parts of himself he was scared of losing? Ears or earrings or jewelry or loose clothing? Even if he had never experienced the horrors of their love, there was an entirely new feeling that overcame him whenever he could avoid the feeling of hands on his hips, pulling him back and down, something he might have called "thanks" if he'd known the meaning of the word. Thankfulness that they'd escaped, that they'd left him with so much to think about, thankfulness that, for all his wealth of emotions, there was something that they had within their hearts they didn't, and he could only imagine and distract himself with fantasies playing through his head.


End file.
